Kid Me Not
by H.J. Bender
Summary: Winters and Nixon drink a strange wine at Berchtesgaden that makes them both younger. With Dick now a teenager and Lewis a little boy, they've got to find a way to get back to normal...if they don't drive each other -and Harry- insane first! DISCONTINUED
1. Happy VE Day

_**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction concerning the actors in the series and in no way reflects the lives of the real persons involved in WWII. Naturally, certain historical data have been altered to better suit this story. This is purely for entertainment and no disrespect is intended. All rights reserved._

He slouched in the passenger seat and squinted at the too-bright world behind a pair of Ray Bans. Already he could feel the headache coming on. "What is this place?" he asked, his gears chugging a bit slower than usual today.

Dick Winters—Major and legendary redhead—passed him a grin that was almost as bright as the noonday sun overhead. "Hermann Göring's Officers' Club," he answered archly.

Lewis Nixon—Captain and legendary alcoholic—turned and stared at his friend, apparently still clueless as to what the hell was so amusing about some bloated, wax-faced Nazi's partially-demolished cocktail lounge.

Winters maintained his grin as he sprang out of the jeep, and Nixon had no choice but to drag himself out with as much enthusiasm as he'd had on his first day at Yale. (Which he'd only attended because "Harvard" didn't rhyme with any drink in the Sacred Trinity of alcoholic beverage types: Beer, Wine, and of course, the Holy Spirits.)

"It was discovered yesterday," the major explained, striding boldly up to the two armed troopers standing just outside. "Had it on double guard ever since."

"I can vouch for that, sir," chirped the baby-faced private at the door.

Winters put on a scowl, though he was unable to keep it entirely straight. "Oh, anxious to get off duty, O'Keefe?" he heckled.

Private Patrick O'Keefe's smile never faltered. "No, there's just so much to see and do, sir!" he insisted cheerfully, handing the house key over to Winters.

"You coming?" he called over his shoulder, fitting the key in the lock.

"Yeah, 'm comin'," Nixon mumbled, forcing himself to trudge forward, scuffing gravel over the toes of his boots. _This had better be one hell of a present_, he thought tiredly. Like a huge bed and sixteen solid hours of DO NOT DISTURB.

It was dark inside and cool as a cave, a welcome relief from the retina-searing daylight of the sober man's world. Winters clicked on the lights and started down a whitewashed stairway, his footsteps tapping lightly on the stones. Nixon followed, dropping his full weight on each step, while the two privates scurried at the rear.

At the bottom of the stairs Winters pushed open an iron gate and stepped into the sprawling room beyond. At this point Nixon felt they were far enough underground to risk removing his shades, and as he lifted his head and actually saw what was in front of him, his mouth drifted open in shock. He took a few numb steps forward, feeling like a mortal who had just stumbled into the hall of the Olympian gods.

Shelf upon shelf of liquor, wine and champagne stretched from floor to ceiling around the oval-shaped room. A long corridor straight ahead held more bottles, numbering at least in the hundreds. Priceless works of art hung in the spaces not occupied by racks. It was a museum. It was a wine cellar. It was the eighth wonder of the fucking world.

A bar stood in the center, littered with gold-rimmed goblets and crystal wine glasses. Fearsome eagles clutching swastikas in their talons glared down at the American intruders but failed to dampen Nixon's awe. He crept farther into the room, his mind unable to comprehend such a sight. He was almost convinced that he and the rest of the company had died sometime last night and now they were all in Heaven.

"It's all yours."

Nixon turned to gape at Winters. If this was Heaven, Dick Winters was God.

The redheaded man smiled warmly from the doorway. "Take what you want, then have each company and battalion HQ take a truckload." He nodded crisply. "You're in charge now."

Nixon tried to speak, but such a tremendous feat is impossible when you've forgotten how to breathe. His mouth moved, but only a few strained noises managed to squeak past his larynx.

Winters chuckled, his eyes twinkling in a way Nixon hadn't remembered seeing since before Normandy. "Happy V-E Day."

Since falling to his knees and groveling at the feet of Dick "God" Winters in front of two subordinate officers wouldn't look very flattering, Nixon managed to get his tongue working again and stammered a fainthearted "Thank you" to the man he suddenly wanted to marry and worship for the rest of his life.

Winters flashed a closing smile and turned, presumably off to attend business elsewhere and leave his companion to do what he does best, but Nixon's gears suddenly jolted as he woke up from his stupor.

"Hey Dick," he called, and Winters turned around. Nixon smiled craftily. "Have a drink with me. Just one."

Winters gave him a strained, we've-been-through-this-before look.

"You mean you're gonna give me the pick of the litter of this _whole trove_—" Nixon threw his arms wide, "—and not even share a little toast with your best friend?"

Winters didn't appreciate the guilt tactic, but Nix had found his soft spot. As usual. He sighed and walked back. "Alright. One sip."

Nixon beamed like any spoiled brat accustomed to getting his way and darted off to find the best bubbly within his reach. Winters watched him peruse the shelves like an excited bloodhound and shook his head, trying not to laugh. The man was incorrigibly decadent and would more likely become a monk before giving up the sauce, but he had his noble moments. That is, moments when Dick wasn't playing father-figure to an overgrown, drunken Peter Pan. Nixon was capable of selflessness and temperance—he just needed a good example to learn from. Winters hoped to be that example.

Nixon returned from his quest with three bottles and two crystal glasses. "I've never seen such a selection in my life," he said, setting down his harvest. "Can't even tell what some of this stuff is. Must be thousands of bottles here."

Winters picked up one of the three. "What's this?"

"Ah, that's Krug, 1931. Blanc."

". . . What is it?"

"Champagne, want some?"

"Let me look at the rest first."

Nixon pointed out another bottle. "This is dessert wine. Thought you might like something sweet. Non-drinkers tend to prefer a more—"

Winters eyes settled upon the last bottle, an expensive-looking baroque beast in black glass. Its white and gold label was covered in indecipherable text. He picked it up, surprised by its weight. "And this?"

"No idea. Something Greek, maybe. Wine, I think. It was in this fancy box, real ornate. Looked promising." He grinned devilishly. "Wanna crack it open?"

Winters looked up. "Don't you think it's unwise to drink from strange bottles?"

"Don't you think it's unwise to jump from airplanes?"

For all his blunt sarcasm and cocky flamboyance, Lewis Nixon had an uncanny way of putting things into perspective sometimes. Winters surrendered the mysterious vino. "You're the expert."

Nixon peeled off the foil and set to work with a corkscrew. Winters took the opportunity to glance around the spacious room, at the large domed skylight above, and then at the two wandering troopers he'd forgotten about. "Lager, O'Keefe," he called, "head back topside and keep an eye out. I'll be up in a minute."

The privates chorused their acknowledgment and made themselves scarce, just as a tremendous pop sounded in Winters' left ear. He jumped and sent Nixon an annoyed frown.

"Cripes. Thought I'd never get that thing out," he muttered apologetically, giving the bottle's mouth a curious sniff. His right eye winced a little.

"How's it smell?"

"Alright, I guess. Different." He slid Dick's glass over and poured a tiny amount. It looked more viscous than normal wine, and it was a deep, velvety shade of indigo bordering on dark blue. Winters had never seen a wine of such hue.

"Wow," he muttered. "Get a load of the color."

"Probably some kind of exotic fruit," Nixon said, pouring his own glass to the brim. "S'not uncommon to throw in something besides grapes. Enhances the flavor and all that jazz." He set down the bottle and raised his glass with a rare, affectionate smile—the kind of smile that seemed to appear only in Dick's presence. "To victory."

Winters imitated the gesture. "To friendship."

"Amen to that."

Crystal chimed musically as they toasted. They tilted their glasses back at the same time, but Winters was the first to pull his away. "Ack!" he rasped, eyes watering, giving a few coughs. "Lord Almighty!"

Nixon gulped down his first mouthful and shuddered involuntarily. It looked like every hair on his body was standing at attention. "Woah," he choked, shaking it off. "Jesus. Man. That's strong."

"It's horrible."

"The aftertaste isn't so bad." Nixon smacked his lips thoughtfully. "Kind of sweet. In a rotten, putrid sort of way. Like decaying flowers."

Winters was grimacing in disgust and doing nothing to hide it as he pushed his half-finished glass away. "Well, you can enjoy that rotten, putrid aftertaste all you want, Nix. I'm heading back to Battalion."

"But you just got here."

"Daddy has work to do, Junior."

"Oh, go to hell, Dick." Nixon threw the foil scraps at Winters, who laughed and easily dodged them. Nixon shook his head, smiling helplessly. "What're you doing tonight?"

"Sleeping. With Sink's permission, of course. Why?"

Nixon ran his finger around the rim of his glass, staring down at the bluish liquid and shrugging. "Fox found some swing records at the Hof and they're throwing a party. Thought maybe we should check it out, make sure nobody has too much fun."

Winters narrowed his eyes, the corners of his mouth curving upward. "I'll think about it."

Nixon raised his glass obligingly.

"And don't drink too much of that stuff, Nix. It can't be good for you."

"Yes, Dad."

Winters grinned and walked away, disappearing up the stairs and leaving Nixon by himself. He stood forlornly at the bar for a minute, then tossed back his glass and drained it in two gulps. The rich liquid coated his throat with its heady, curious flavor, bringing about another involuntary shudder. It pooled in his belly like quicksilver, heavy and cool and malty. It really wasn't as bad as Dick said. Once you got past the weird taste, it felt pretty good going down.

Nixon licked a drop from his finger, studied Dick's glass, thought what the hell, and finished it off. Then he wedged the cork back into the bottle and turned to stare at ten thousand bottles of booze on the wall.

He beamed, rubbed his hands together, and set to work.

* * *

It wasn't long after leaving Hermann's clubhouse that Winters began to feel a little thin in the blood. The lightheaded sensation persisted into the late afternoon, though not intensely enough to be anything but a bother. By the time chow hour approached, however, Winters was certain the wine from earlier was making him ill. He decided to take a half hour and sleep it off on the sofa at Battalion HQ.

He delegated a few of his tasks to Speirs and Lipton before sinking down onto the silk-embroidered luxury enjoyed by only the highest-ranking Nazis in Nazidom. In two beats he had slipped into the deepest, most peaceful slumber of his life.

He slept through dinner, where Colonel Sink made a special appearance and gave a rousing speech in honor of the victory over Europe. He slept through the swing party that took place afterward, even though the music and revelry was loud enough to wake the dead two blocks away. He slept through the drinking party that took place after the swing party, and was fortunate enough to miss the Flight of the Screaming Eagles, which was the title given to the nude, drunken stampede of about sixty American paratroopers through the streets of Berchtesgaden. He slept through everything, even the howling and firing of rifles that occurred shortly after 0300 hours.

He was out cold, lost in a dreamless, spiderweb-thin state of unconsciousness, and nothing was capable of waking him but his internal alarm clock; the clock which, for a brief time that night, had ticked in the wrong direction.

* * *

Lipton was the only other man up at 0600 hours that morning. He sat comfortably at a table before an open window in the dining room, drinking coffee and watching the sky over the Alps begin to lighten. Winters sat down across from him and poured himself a cup of joe from the steaming carafe. "You're up early," he said amicably.

Lipton smiled over the rim of his mug. "That's because I haven't gone to bed yet, sir."

"You're kidding." Winters poured cream into his cup and stirred.

"I don't know how anyone could sleep through that racket last night."

"Guess I must've been a little sick."

"If you were, it doesn't show. You look like a million bucks." Lipton paused, his eyes resting on Winters' face. He frowned slightly. "Maybe more. How're you feeling?"

Winters took a cautious sip from the piping hot cup. "Great. Decent night's sleep is good medicine."

Lipton shook his head. "No, it's more than that. You look different."

"Different how?"

Lipton mused for a moment, trying to put his finger on it. He gave up with a shrug. "I dunno, sir. I probably need some shut-eye myself."

"Yeah, you and the rest of Easy. There any food around here? I feel like I haven't eaten in a week."

"Cooks probably have some leftovers if you can't wait till breakfast. They're set up in the kitchen in the back. I think Walter's there if you wanna pester him for some grub."

"Think I'll go do that," Winters said, scraping his chair back. His gut felt as hollow as a kettledrum. "Oh, by the way, you didn't happen to see Nix last night, did you?"

Lipton tried to conceal his grin. "I last saw Captain Nixon around 2100 hours, sir. Captain Speirs and Lieutenant Welsh were helping him to bed."

"Drunk?"

"Unconscious. Dead to the world. Hadn't even had that much to drink."

Winters sighed heavily. "I'll go check up on him after I get some chow. If you see any of the other officers, tell them we're having a meeting this afternoon in the study. We need to discuss how to maintain some order around here and see if Sink's pinned down our next objective."

"I'll do just that, sir," Lipton nodded.

Winters ambled out of the dining room and down the corridor that led to the kitchens. He gingerly sipped his coffee as he went, thinking about how great a stack of Mom's buttermilk pancakes would be right now, when he passed by a broad mirror hanging on the wall, glancing at it briefly.

The sight of the man in the frame was so surprising that he stopped in his tracks, causing coffee to slosh over the rim of his cup. The hot liquid dribbled down his fingers, but he didn't feel a thing—he was too engrossed in his reflection to notice anything else. He stepped closer to the mirror, his eyes wide and his lips parted in wonder.

It was the same person, that he was sure of. But something had changed. Something about Dick Winters was different.

He hesitantly reached up and poked his cheek. Felt the same. He leaned in closer, his nose only an inch or two from the glass, studying himself with as much care as a nervous teenage girl before her first prom.

The questions dawned on him gradually: what happened to the crow's feet? And the fine wrinkles under his eyes? They were hardly there anymore. And that scratch he'd gotten on his forehead at Normandy; it was gone. His skin looked flawless, firm and freckled and untouched by creases or worry lines. And his hair—what the heck?—it was no longer the same dull, lusterless shade of apricot it had been since Bastogne. Now it was shiny and sleek and fiery orange.

Winters, certain by now that his body had undergone some sort of physical transformation within the last eight hours, became highly aware and conscious of every movement he made. He could feel the changes; his muscles felt stronger, fuller, more flexible. He figured maybe the sleep had done it, but it couldn't possibly have been that rejuvenating. The faint stiffness that still lingered in his Carentan wound had vanished, as if the bullet had never hit his leg. Even his hands looked changed—the hands of a civilian, not a rifle-callused soldier.

Winters studied his reflection one more time, and then it finally struck him: he _had_ seen this face before. He recalled it precisely, down to the last hair.

It was how he had looked while fixing his tie in the bathroom mirror at his parent's house. The same day he had left for college.

He leaned back, ashen with fear.

In the mirror, nineteen-year-old Dick Winters leaned back, too.

"Oh _shit_."

A moment later the mirror was empty, and the sound of boots thudding rapidly down the hall faded with youthful, energetic haste.

* * *

"NIX!"

The heavy wooden door to Nixon's lavish bedroom busted inward with a loud bang. Winters leaped across the threshold and bounded toward the bed like a frightened deer, dodging the obscene number of liquor and wine bottles that stood watch on every available surface.

"Nix, wake up!" He grabbed the lump cocooned within the covers and shook it vigorously. "Something's happened!" When there was no response, Winters grasped the sheets in his fists and yanked them down, not caring if his comrade was sleeping in the nude again.

"Get up, Nix! For crying out loud, something is seriously—"

Winters froze so completely that for a few seconds his heart ceased to beat.

Curled up in a soft nest of pillows, swimming in a pair of oversized PT shorts, lay a young boy, sleeping peacefully. Soft locks of dark brown hair lay scattered across the child's forehead, spilling over his thick, well-defined eyebrows. His upturned nose still had that babyish curve to it, but it was definitely familiar. So were those lips. And that freckle on the right cheek. Dick remembered how he had made fun of it once upon a time. _Hey Nix, how's that wart/boil/carbuncle/lesion/leprosy coming along? I think it's gotten bigger since yesterday. Thought of any names yet?_ (Winters normally wouldn't ridicule physical traits that people couldn't help, but Nixon had been calling him Firecrotch for two weeks and payback was long overdue. God, Officer Candidate School was a nightmare.)

Winters took an unsteady step backward, but his ankles suddenly couldn't bear his weight—he stumbled and fell on his rear. "No," he uttered, gazing at the little human being that couldn't possibly be his best friend. "Oh my God, _Nix_ . . ."

The boy stirred, apparently wakened by the thump Dick had made when he hit the rug (and most certainly not his frantic cries or shaking). The boy sat up and rolled his fist over his eyes, smiling cutely. His narrow chest was hairless and white, the dogtags around his neck hanging almost to his belly button. He was skinny but padded with baby fat (especially in his face—those cheeks were begging to be pinched), and he seemed to be in that awkward, knock-kneed stage between toddler and boy; Dick put him at about six or seven.

"Mornin', Dick," he said in a high, reedy voice that just barely held the timber of the man he'd become in twenty years. "You sleep on the floor or someth . . ." He frowned, going quiet.

Winters could see it in those familiar dark eyes, the same alarm and confusion that would soon unfold into wild, screaming hysteria. "Lew," he said softly, "whatever you do, don't panic."

Fear was etched onto Nixon's cherubic face. "Dick? What's going on? Why's everything so big? Why do I sound so funny? Why's . . . oh Christ, my hands!"

"Lew, calm down—"

"What happened to my hands!" he yelled, his voice piercing and bright. Lord, his tantrums must have driven his parents _nuts_.

Winters crawled forward and laid his hands on Nixon's shoulders. They practically spanned the breadth of his body. "Nix, listen to me. Something happened to us last night. Something changed us. It made us younger."

Nixon's eyes began to water, his features to twist, and Winters knew the kid was getting ready to burst into tears. "_You_ don't look younger. You look bigger!"

"I'm not bigger, Nix. You're just smaller."

The first fat, hot tears rolled down Nixon's cheeks. "Dick, I'm scared! What happened to me? Why are my hands so small? Wh-why do I sound like this?" He sniffed, a wet, slurpy sound. "_And what the hell am I crying for!_"

Winters didn't know what to say or what to do at this point. All he could do was act upon his instincts, and his instincts told him to hug this child and get him as far away from Germany as possible. He didn't have to do much; he just opened his arms and Nixon fell into them.

"Shh. It'll be okay, Nix," Winters murmured, stroking the boy's dark hair. His skull felt so small, his bones so tiny and fragile. He could get killed out here. He was no match for anything. He could fall out of a tree and die. He could slip into a lake and drown. God oh God, this was no place for a kid. This was no place for Mrs Nixon's baby boy.

Harry Welsh's voice blurted outside the door, "Hey Nix! Rise and shine, buddy! It's time to—" He appeared in the doorway and halted, blinking. "Dick? What're you doin' here? You seen Nix any—"

Nixon turned his tear-stained face toward Harry, and that was all he had to do.

"Oh my—" Welsh leaned up against the door frame to keep from falling, his face as white as paste. "Ohhhh _boy_."


	2. The Important Thing

"Alright," Winters muttered, pacing back and forth across the room and stepping over wine bottles as he went. "We've got two problems to contend with. First one is figuring out what caused this, and second is how we're going to fix it."

Harry Welsh slouched in his chair with his collar unbuttoned and the last quarter of a cigarette burning between his fingers, monitoring Winters' stride with a dazed look. Nixon was sitting on the bed and hugging a pillow that was nearly as large as himself. He rocked back and forth as if he were catatonic, but at least he had stopped crying. He held his lips between his teeth and stared into space, apparently stupefied at waking up twenty years younger and three feet shorter. Winters seemed the only man capable of functioning under such fantastic duress—of course, that was why he was a major. And as of late, a teenaged one.

"I'm almost positive I know how it happened," he rushed on, not caring if anyone else was paying attention. "It's crazy, something out of a fairy tale, but I think Nix found the Fountain of Youth, or, or some kind of potion that turns back time. Nix—" Winters crouched down at the bed's edge and studied his tiny friend. "Do you remember that weird wine you found yesterday? The one we drank together?"

"Woah woah woah woah woah," Harry interrupted, sitting up. "You _drank_? Where was _I_ when this miracle happened?"

"Dammit, Harry, there are more important—"

"And you're swearing, too! Jeez, Dick, you used to be a helluva guy. What happened?"

"I grew up," Winters snapped. "You should try it." He turned back to Nixon and softened his tone. "Do you remember that wine, Nix? The wine you drank yesterday?"

"I drank a lot of wine yesterday," he croaked in his rough little voice. "I drank a lot of _everything_."

"But do you remember the wine we toasted from that funny looking bottle? And you said it tasted kind of sweet and rotten?"

"Yeah . . ."

Relief washed over Winters' face. "Good. That's good. Do you know what you did with it?"

Nixon cast a panoramic glance at the wine bottles crowding the bedroom floor. "It's somewhere around here maybe, I dunno. Maybe I gave it away. I can't remember! How do you expect me to remember something like that when I wake up looking like this—"

Uh oh. Here come the tears again.

"—when I spent all day yesterday completely out of it, and now you're interring . . . intrepo . . . intrerra—_asking me all these fucking questions_!"

Even Harry winced to hear the F-bomb dropped so vehemently from a child's mouth, and as Nixon burst into fresh tears, Winters tried to soothe him with a hug, which only offended Nixon even more.

"Stop it, get away!" he sobbed. "I'm not a baby, just leave me alone!" He grabbed a pillow and chucked it weakly at Winters, who sighed and turned around to face Harry, wordlessly asking for assistance.

"Hey, don't look at _me_," he muttered. "I don't know the first thing about kids. Except how to make 'em."

Winters looked back at Nixon, who had retreated to the womb of bed sheets to weep in shameless self-pity, then at Harry again. "Alright. This isn't important right now," he muttered, standing up. "What's important is that we find that bottle. Maybe there's instructions on it, or some kind of antidote."

"That I can do," said Harry, stubbing out his cigarette on a brass statuette. "What'd it look like?"

"It was a big, dark bottle and it had a white label."

The two officers looked around the bottle-choked room, and their hope sank faster than the _Titanic_.

"Jesus Christ," Harry sighed.

Winters was already bent over at the waist and shuffling through the bottles noisily. "Well hurry up, for heaven's sake! What're you waiting for?"

Harry watched his friend frantically fumble around like a blind old woman trying to find her glasses, and he couldn't help but feel incredibly aware of his age and weariness. He hoped this was all just some strange nightmare, because the thought of dealing with a teenager's high-octane energy and a little boy's conniptions for any length of time could very well send him barreling straight to the loony bin.

And then a thought occurred to Harry. A horrible thought. A thought so horrible he couldn't keep it to himself. "Dick," he said slowly, "what if the bottle's not here?"

Winters snapped upright, his eyes wide with incomprehension. "What?"

"What if the bottle's not here? What if it's somewhere else? I _mean_," Harry massaged his forehead, "what if someone else's gotten a hold of this kid-potion?"

You could see the idea seeping into Winters' mind, and also onto his face. "Oh my God," he uttered. "A man could drink himself back to infancy! Quick, Harry, _help me_!" Winters dived into his search with renewed vigor, knocking over bottles and clinking his way across the floor.

A repeated, persistent clicking of metal suddenly drew their attention to the bed, where a red-eyed little Lewis Nixon sat with his man-sized trousers crumpled in his lap, holding a giant-looking Lucky between his lips and trying to work the lighter with both of his small hands.

Winters and Harry gaped in horror. "NOOO!" they shouted, and Winters actually threw himself onto the bed like he was jumping from a burning plane, and snatched the cigarette from Nixon's lips.

"Are you out of your mind?" he barked. "You're just a kid! If you start smoking now, your lungs are gonna look like jerky by the time you're—"

"I'm stressed out!" Nixon screeched. "I need a smoke! Gimme it!"

"No! And hand over that lighter before you set yourself on fi—"

Nixon let out a lion-cub roar and lunged at Winters, grabbing him by the hair and pushing his head into the sheets. Then he scrambled over top of him like a skink and bolted for the bedroom door, knocking down wine bottles and losing his oversized shorts in the process. The last thing Harry saw as he sprang from his chair and began tripping over bottles was the salmon-belly-white flash of a child's bare bottom disappearing out the door, accompanied by the pitter-patter of little feet down the hallway.

Winters hauled himself off of the bed, his face almost as red as his hair, and he stormed toward the door, kicking aside bottles in his anger. Harry blocked him with two hands on his chest and gently tried to pacify his fury. "Easy there, cowboy. He won't go far."

"Yeah, well HE'D BETTER!" Winters yelled over Harry's shoulder. "'CAUSE IF _I_ CATCH HIM, I'M GONNA GIVE HIM THE WHOOPING THAT HIS _FATHER_ NEVER DID!"

"Alright, hothead, just cool it," Harry ordered, and Winters shut his mouth as his body relaxed.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he said softly, rubbing his face. "I don't know what came over me. I just . . . I'm feeling a little overwhelmed right now. Can't even think straight."

Harry grinned helplessly. "Yeah, I was once a teenager too, Dick. Believe me, I know how it feels to be pissed off all the time. Look, why don't you just sit down and relax for a minute, and I'll look for this magic bottle of booze, okay?"

Worry crawled onto Winter's face, completely erasing all traces of his anger. "But what about Nix? He's out there all by himself."

"He'll be fine, Dick. He can take care of himself."

"But he's so little. And he's probably scared, too." Winters shook his head and stepped away. "I've gotta find him, Harry. You look for the bottle here. I'll be back with Nix and then we'll get this whole mess straightened out once and for all."

"But—" Harry started, but Winters was already jogging down the hall.

Harry let his shoulders slump as he gazed around the room. Unruly adolescents, screaming children, and a quest right out of Arthurian legend. It was too early in the morning for this kind of insanity.

* * *

Lipton was walking back to his room when a dark-haired little boy, naked as the day he was born, suddenly appeared around the corner at bratty-miles-per-hour and came streaking toward him as fast as his skinny little legs could take him. He looked very serious and determined, which Lipton thought was just adorable. He crouched down as the boy raced toward him.

"Hey, little fellah," he said with a friendly grin. "What're you doing he—"

"Not now, Lip!" the boy snapped as he flew past the stunned lieutenant.

Lipton turned and stared as the boy spun around the banister and began thumping down the stairs. _That's funny_, he thought. _He sounds like someone I know._

Lipton rose to his feet just as Winters skidded around the same corner and blazed down the hallway at a speed Lipton hadn't seen him achieve since their Toccoa days. "Dick? What's going on? Who's that kid?"

"Not now, Lip!" Winters snapped as he flew past the stunned lieutenant.

Lipton stood there for a few moments, just gathering his thoughts and trying to make sense of them, then opened his bedroom door with a slow shake of his head. Maybe he ought to lie down for a little while. Lack of sleep can drive a man crazy, and things were definitely a bit crazier than usual around here.

Winters took the last three stairs in a single lunge, landing lightly on his feet and springing up into a full sprint. His movements came effortlessly—he wasn't even winded yet. He managed to spot Nixon as the belligerent runt scampered into a parlor, disappearing into a sea of coffee tables, sofas, and armchairs.

"Nix!" he called, rushing into the parlor. "Nix, come on, I'm just trying to help you!"

A flash of white skin darted between two chairs. So he wants to play Hide and Seek, eh? Winters took a step back and shut the doors behind him. There. The terrible tyke was trapped.

"I know you're upset, Nix," said Winters in a quiet, reasonable tone, walking slowly among the furniture. "I'm upset too, and I promise, we'll get this whole thing straightened out soon, but I can't do it on my own. I just need to talk to you, Lew. I know there's an adult in there somewhere, so let's talk like adults, alright? Man to man."

He crouched down, peering under a sofa. "I didn't mean to be so . . . overprotective, or whatever I was earlier, but I'm sorry. C'mon, Lew, we can't let this happen to anybody else. If you'll just talk to me, maybe you'll remember where that wine is, and we can fix this problem before it gets out of—"

There was a click, a squeak, and Winters looked over to see Nixon climbing out of the window like a bare-assed little monkey.

"Nix, wait!" he shouted and bolted for the boy, not even noticing the coffee table standing in his way until he'd tripped and fallen on top of it. The legs snapped off and the table smashed to the floor with an almighty crack.

"DAMMIT!" Winters roared, his ribs smarting from the blow. He hauled himself out of the wreckage and made a break for the window. Nixon was high-tailing it around the side of the building. Winters wasted no time—he vaulted through the window like an Olympian and took off after him, arms pumping and boots pounding. His legs were longer and he was in fabulous shape, so it was only a matter of time before he caught Nixon trying to pull himself through a dining room window.

"Gotcha," Winters grunted, grabbing Nixon around the waist and lifting him as easily as a sack of flour.

Nixon immediately began to thrash. "Let go of me, Dick!" he squealed, kicking his legs and beating at the strong arm locked around his belly. "I don't wanna talk to you! You're not my dad! Put me down _now_, you . . . you big, stupid jerk! I'll tell Sink on you!"

Winters stared. "For crying out loud, what's gotten into you? Lew—ow. Lewis. Hey. Stop that. I mean it, Lew, now _stop it_!" He gave the boy a firm shake he went still. There came a soft little moan and then the weeping started.

God, he just couldn't win.

Winters knelt down and put Nixon on his feet, turning him around so that they were eye to eye. Nixon's chubby little face was blotchy pink and shiny with tears. Snot ran from his nose and his hair was a disheveled mess, his dog tags tangled and hanging against his bare stomach. He rubbed the tears from his eyes with one small fist and sucked in a phlegmy breath through his nose.

"Nix, what's the matter? Why are you acting like this? Don't you wanna help me and Harry find out how to fix you?"

Nixon hiccuped, scowling through his tears. "Yeah, fix _me_. Why would _you_ wanna be fixed? You're just perfect. It's not fair! _You_ drink that shit and you, you're fucking rev. Reveal . . . revere . . . reval, _reveling_ in it! Me, I drink the same thing and I lose my whole life! That's always the way, isn't it? You never do a goddamn thing wrong, and I can't do anything right." He sniffed pathetically.

Winters sighed. "Nix, it's not always about you—"

"Oh, so now I'm selfish?"

"You're not yourself."

"Yeah? What was your first clue, Sherlock?"

"Lewis. Listen to me. This isn't the end of the world. If you would just calm down and hear me out for two minutes, maybe we can figure out a way to get us both back to normal. But I can't do it without you, understand? You're still Captain Nixon. Just a little bit smaller. That doesn't mean you're stupid, Nix—you're still smart, still one of the sharpest guys in Intelligence, and I know you can help us fix this situation if you just stop thinking about yourself for one second. Can you do that for me, Nix? Can we work together on this?"

Nixon wiped his red, puffy eyes. "I'm hungry."

Winters gave a pained, sympathetic grin. "Yeah, me too. You wanna get some breakfast?"

The boy nodded.

Winters rose up and held out his hand. Even despite their fierce quarrel, Nixon reached out and slipped his clammy little hand into Winters', as if it were some kind of ingrained reflex. It filled Winters with a rosy, glowing warmth—he liked it. "Maybe you'll feel better after you've had something to eat."

"Yeah, maybe," Nixon mumbled toward the ground. "Some clothes wouldn't hurt, either."

Winters smiled and gave the small hand a gentle squeeze. "I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Eight o'clock found Dick Winters sitting at a long dining table, working his way through coffee, porridge, and several pieces of toast and jam. Beside him sat Lewis Nixon—on several large hardcover books—wearing a cotton t-shirt and cutoff jump trousers, which were held up by a canteen strap tied around his waist. He swung his socked feet under the table as he devoured his plate of scrambled eggs.

They were far from alone. Most of Easy Company were filing through the room, showing off loot, trading cigarettes and jokes, and helping themselves to whatever the cooks were dishing out. Luckily the men were more interested in food than Major Winters' pint-sized companion—or the lack of the ever-present Captain Nixon.

Harry Welsh ground his cigarette butt into his plate. "I looked all over Nix's room. Couldn't find anything like what you guys described, which means the Youth Juice is still out there somewhere."

Winters paused in wolfing down his breakfast to say, around a mouthful of toast, "We can't let anyone else get their hands on it. God only knows what'll happen if someone passes it around a whole platoon."

"Well, it didn't mess you up too bad," Harry pointed out, lighting another cigarette. He'd been chain-smoking all morning, apparently having adopted Nixon's abandoned habit out of generosity. Or stress.

"I only had a sip, though," Winters said. "Nix drank a lot more than me."

"Too bad he didn't drink the whole bottle. Woulda saved us a lot of trouble."

Nixon looked up from his plate, his chin greasy from slurping scrambled eggs. "Fuck you, Harry. I could be a goddamn embryo right now, and all you can think about is—"

"Come on, Nix, watch your language," Dick muttered, reaching over with his napkin and wiping the boy's chin. "Try not to make a scene. We don't wanna advertise—"

"God! What are you, my dad? Stop it!" squawked Nixon, slapping away the invasive hand.

"Sorry. But really, Lew, how much did you drink? Do you remember?"

Nixon scrunched his nose up, hunkering down in typical child-in-deep-thought pose. "I'm not sure. I know I finished my glass . . . I think I might've finished yours, too. I mean, it wasn't the best thing I've ever tasted, so I don't see why I'd drink more with all the rest of the stash just waiting . . ."

Harry leaned back and crossed his arms. "Something's not adding up."

"What do you mean?" Winters asked.

"Okay. So you have one sip, right? Boom. You get knocked back to your teens. That's what, seven years? And Nix here drinks a full glass—maybe two. Say there's ten sips per glass, probably twenty. You're looking at seventy to a hundred and forty years. Nix should be a fucking sperm or something, not a little kid."

Winters was silent, thinking.

Nixon scoffed and rolled his eyes. "_Please_. Dick could get drunk on three drops. I bet a guy'd have to drink a whole boat loada that stuff before it'd have any—"

"That's _right_!" Winters slapped the table, his blue eyes alight with revelation. "I didn't drink anything yesterday, but Nix was practically staggering drunk when we went to the officers' club." He looked down at the boy. "I think your alcoholism might have actually saved your life, Nix. All that booze in your blood must've weakened the effects of the wine."

Nixon lifted his cup of milk in a sarcastic toast. "Well ain't that a gosh-darned peach. Cheers, fellahs."

Winters pushed aside his plate and grabbed one of the fancy white napkins from the center of the table. "You gotta pen, Harry?"

"Do I _look_ like I gotta pen?"

Winters bit his lip and turned around, scanning the crowd until he found the face he was looking for. "Private Webster!"

David Webster's head popped into view one table down, like some kind of doe-eyed, perpetually dreaming Jack in the Box. He had his journal spread open on the table in front of him, and a fountain pen was bleeding through the paper where his thoughts had been interrupted. "Yes sir?"

"Let me borrow your pen!"

"But . . ." For a moment the young Harvard student looked like he could cry. "But I'm using it right now, sir!"

"For Pete's sake, it's not a parachute, I just want it for one second!"

Webster reluctantly capped his fountain pen and tossed it through the air with a defeated look. Winters caught it easily and turned around. He scrawled a number one on the napkin, the ink spreading through the fibers.

"Alright," he muttered. "First thing we do, find the bottle." He jotted _Find the bottle_ out beside the number one. "Second thing . . ." He trailed off. "What's the second thing we should do?"

"Find me some real clothes," Nixon said.

"Don't let anyone know about this," Harry offered.

"Right! Keep this a secret. _Keep . . . this . . . a . . . secret_. Got it. Third thing?"

"Find me some real clothes," Nixon repeated.

"Isn't there a war still going on somewhere?" Harry idly wondered.

"There are more important things than war right now, Harry."

"Right. Like finding me some goddamn clothes."

"Nix, if you don't stop complaining about your clothes I'm gonna—"

"You're gonna what? Slap my wrist? Make me stand in the corner?"

"I'll put you in a frock."

For a second Nixon's eyes went wide. "You . . . you better not even _think about_ . . ."

Harry rubbed his eyes. "Christ, where's a head doctor when you need one."

"A doctor!" Winters began to scribble on the napkin. "_See . . . a . . . doctor_. Right. We need to make sure Nix is okay."

"Nix is just _fine_," Nixon snapped. "I'd say the guy who wants to put him in a fucking frock is the one who needs a doctor."

"Fourth thing?"

Harry shrugged. "I think 'get back to normal' should be on there somewhere, but that's just the opinion of one ignorant man."

Winters studied the napkin. "I think this list needs some revising."

"Grab another napkin then."

"No, wait, just scratch through the numbers."

"That's a waste of ink—Webster's gonna get mad."

"So fucking what! It's just Webster!"

"I think Number Two should be applied to all the other numbers," Harry interjected. "In fact, it should go without saying. It doesn't even need its own number."

"Alright, alright, I'll cross through Number Two and put 'get back to normal' in its place. That's pretty important anyway."

"But if you guys get turned back to normal you won't _need_ a doctor—"

"Oh for the love of Christ—"

"Nix, if you don't watch your mouth I really am gonna spank you."

"Dick, you come anywhere near my ass and I swear to God I will never speak to you again."

"At this point I think I wouldn't mind—"

Harry dropped his fist on the table with a bang, rattling the dishes and silencing his comrades' bickering. "Enough of this bullshit," he snapped. "Just _enough_. Jesus. I mean, _listen_ to yourselves. I can't believe the bitching brats sitting in front of me were once men I looked up to. Just _can it_ already, I'm fucking sick of listening to it."

Winters and lowered his head, flushing with embarrassment. Nixon sulkily went back to shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth.

"Now," said Harry, flicking his cigarette into his coffee cup, "let's forget all about lists and numbers and shit and handle this like adults. All we need to do is find that bottle. The rest will come later, but right now everything hinges on finding that damn brew.

"Dick, I want you to round up the men and tell 'em all to get their asses on the wagon. Yeah, I'm serious, don't look at me like that. No drinking until we find this bottle. We stop the drinking, we stop the spread of this . . . magical kiddie crap, whatever the hell it is. You and I'll search this hotel from basement to attic today and keep our fingers crossed that we find it."

Harry then set his eyes on the dark-haired little boy in front of him. "Nix, for your own safety, and to keep this thing under wraps, you're gonna go to your room and stay there until either Dick or me comes and gets you."

"But—!"

"You'll be taken care of, so don't worry. You want anything, we'll get it for you, but you have _got_ to stay out of sight. Understand? Dick and I can't be worrying about you while we're looking for this bottle, 'cause the sooner we find it the sooner we can get through this fucking nightmare, okay? Okay, Nix?"

"Okay," Nixon mumbled.

Harry leaned back in his chairs and picked up his coffee. "Alright," he nodded, bringing the cup to his lips. "We're finally starting to get somewhere." He took a swig and promptly choked on his soggy cigarette butt. He leaned forward and hacked it out onto the table, his rib-rattling coughs turning every head in the room.

Nixon put his hand over his face and mumbled something that sounded like a plea for mercy.

Webster stood from his chair in alarm. "Is that my pen he's choking on?" he yelled worriedly.

"You mean this one?" Winters called, hurling the pen back to its owner. It twirled end over end and bounced off of Webster's forehead, causing him to recoil with a sharp cry.

Nixon stared at his best friend with a look of disbelief. "_Dick_," he gaped. "How _could_ you?"

Winters hunched his shoulders and winced in shame. "I don't know—I was aiming for his mouth."

A shriek of childish laughter escaped Nixon's lips before he muffled it with his hand. Harry wiped his watering eyes and tried to catch his breath while Winters chuckled into his coffee like a mischievous teenager—because he _was_ a mischievous teenager. And Nixon was an undisciplined rug rat. And Harry was the sole voice of reason in a world that had suddenly rejected sanity. Against odds like this, they were going to need a miracle.

Or a referee.


End file.
